


It's Already in Motion, It's Emotion

by latinaeinstein (oneforyourfire)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M, Pining, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 21:08:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17567960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/latinaeinstein
Summary: And tonight, tonight Tao will make a move. Tonight, he'dpromisedhimself





	It's Already in Motion, It's Emotion

**Author's Note:**

> 2014 fic, from an exo xmas exchange idr which one????

Tao’s elbows knock against the polished counter as his legs stretch out behind him. He arches his spine, pops his joints, groans. Whines. Complains. Loud enough for Jongdae—at the other end of the bar—to send him _look_. It communicates fond disdain, quiet warning. _Professionalism_ , Jongdae likes to remind him. _It’s of utmost importance. Stay professional, Tao._

But it’s only 9 pm, and there’s nobody else at the bar. And his body aches. And his shift won’t end for another 8 hours. And it’s too warm, the dry skin, chapped lip provoking electric heat of fall. (It _is_ colder and gloomier this year, Sehun has confirmed, complained)

Tao enumerates his grievances—aloud—as he sticks out of his tongue in Jongdae’s general direction.

The elder shakes his head. Continues to arrange their maraschino cherries behind him on the shelf. He murmurs once more about _professionalism_ , _maturity_ , wonders aloud about _Tao’s suitedness for this position_.

Tao just arches further. Long and sleek, like a cat. He leans against the counter, stretches his arms so high that his shirt rides up and his bare stomach brushes against the cool surface. He feels every muscle shift, tense, go lax as he groans.

He pushed himself too hard at the gym, he decides. And the soreness in his limbs is pleasant, a byproduct of success, but still distracting. A nuisance.

Tao pops out his ass, rolls his hips side to side. He finds the especially tender parts. All the while, throwing his own _looks_ —seductive, challenging—over his shoulder at Jongdae who just sighs. Rolls his eyes. Turns to scrub at the counter with extra vigor. More muttered lectures.

So Tao leans further over the counter, preens at his reflection in the waxed, shiny bar surface. He traces mindless patterns along the polished, varnished wood.

“Your person,” Jongdae interrupts mid-angled pout. Offhand, but voice too loud. And Tao straightens immediately. Tugs his shirt down. Rights his jeans. Fusses over his hair in the shiny reflection. Swallows hard to gather his bearings.

It’s probably obvious, Tao thinks. Almost painfully so. Or would be, if his person—Joonmyun—ever really bothered to look. He’s practically brimming with it. It’s practically spilling out of his eyes, out of his mouth. And if, if Joonmyun scrutinized. Watched just a little more intently—

But he doesn’t. Hasn’t. Won’t?

Tao doesn’t allow himself to dwell on that insecurity for too long. Tries not to let it show on his face. Focuses instead on the lazy, smooth way Joonmyun approaches the bar. The way he dips his head in a quick greeting.

There’s a guitar case slung over his shoulder, a wide smile on his face. He’s Tao’s _person_. Tao’s laid claim. Called dibs. But his tongue feels thick in his throat. His skin feels tight across his bones. And he feels small. Very, very small. He can feel Jongdae’s eyes on him from the other side of the bar.

“The usual?” Tao manages. Voice pitched deeper to mask his sudden insecurity, hypersensitivity.

Joonmyun nods. Smiles. He takes off his gloves, cups his hands over his mouth to warm them. They’re stained pink from cold. He purses his lips as he blows.

Tao wants to press his fingers against Joonmyun’s mouth, trace the contours of Joonmyun’s curled lips with hands, his tongue. But he settles for sliding over a ginger ale. Bar napkin. Fingertips skimming briefly.

Joonmyun’s throat works as he swallows. It’s torture, almost. The best and worst job in the world.

He asks for a straw, wraps his lips securely around the pink plastic as he slips in slow drags.

And it becomes better, worse.

 

It’s Friday. Open Mic. And Joonmyun—stage name _Suho_ —is smiling with his eyes, toying with the edge of his napkin. (Tao feels privileged, special, part of a chosen few—all the bar staff, honestly—for knowing that tidbit of information. )

Joonmyun’s not up for another hour. Sole customer. But Joonmyun has revealed, on prior occasions, that he appreciates the ambience. Likes to just marinate in the environment. Listen to the chillwave—courtesy Chanyeol’s snobbish music library—pouring from the speakers. Relax before his performance. _Talk_.

And it’s tragedy. A cruel sort of poetic irony then that Tao can’t _speak_.

That it’s Jongdae sidling over with a teasing smile. Asking about any new music he’s listened to. New restaurants he’d recommend. How things are progressing in his gross boring day job (Joonmyun does something with papers, contracts. Wears a tie. Has papercuts lacing with the guitar callouses on his small fingers).

And Tao just stands there, tense, mute, contributing with the occasional, well-placed hum, appropriate nod.

Joonmyun’s eyes sparkle as he laughs.

 

People filter in as Jongdae charms, laughs, _flirts_.

And Tao can speak to them, the others that sit on the stools. Tao can charm, laugh, flirt, too. Flutter his eyelashes. Roll his shoulders. Men, women blinking up at him, dazzled. As he takes orders. Scans cards. Serves drinks. Chats up.

This is why they hired him. Tao is good at his job. Good at being _liked_.

And Joonmyun is just an fortunate, unfortunate distraction from that. Strolling in 2 months prior. New to the city, he’d wandered in. Wearing a cardigan in the middle of summer, he’d bought a drink after seeing a sign at his drycleaners, had returned three days later with his guitar, his voice.

Making Tao’s job better, worse.

 

And tonight, tonight Tao will make a move. Tonight, he’d _promised_ himself.

(Has done it several times, actually. Rehearsed it. Recited the words to the point of perfection, tone sounding natural, casual, but with the subtlest undertone of _want_.

Tao’s written his name, number on a napkin countless times prior, wearing the paper thin from fiddling with it.

Sehun—roommate, best friend—always helping. Hyping him up. Reminding him of all the boyfriends he’s had. All the boys that hit on him at bars. And Sehun declaring that Joonmyun is totally definitely _assuredly_ gay. Into tall strong Chinese men with dark eyes, dark skin, an air of mystery and danger about them. That’s exactly that Joonmyun wants. A dark broody boytoy at his arm. To spice up his life. Mess up his hair. Tear at those ugly dog sweaters. Scratch marks into his skin. Yeah, that’s exactly what Joonmyun wants. He’s just too shy. And it’s just on Tao to make the first move. Set the ball rolling.)

And Tao, Tao is going to. Tonight. He is.

 

But he doesn’t. Chokes last minute. Bows a quick goodbye instead. Scratches at the collar of his shirt as he meets Joonmyun’s bright eyes. Watches his small, slight, retreating form. Because Tao’s nervous and he prefers the painful, but safe uncertainty of an almost to the potentially painful, awkward awfulness of a “no.”

And Tao’s got exams to study for. Video games to play. A roommate to harass. A life full of priorities and excuses not to dwell. And this has become routine.

But the fall wind is cold. Biting. Tao buries his face into his scarf. Inhales the familiar, aching smell of his father’s pilfered cologne. Thinks, hardly for the first time, that it would be nice to have somebody to curl into at night. Somebody to kiss his nose, his eyelids, his mouth, his fingertips, somebody to press warm, firm fingers into all his extra sensitive spots, sighing his name in reverence and need.

 

Tao’s in Korea on exchange, nearing his sixth month, fumbling his way through the Korean Language Institute at Yonsei, picking up extra-legal under-the-table funds working at the bar to supplement his scholarship money.

And Tao is, in many ways, still adjusting.

The air is smoggier here, the streets more narrow, the people colder.

And sometimes, the only Chinese he hears is crackling through the subway speakers. Stiff, static, sanitized. Sometimes the only touches he gets are the grazing elbows of other commuters, the accidental brushes from rushed people on the streets. Tao finds himself pressing back tighter at those touches sometimes. On the worse days.

But on the good days. On the good days, Yixing—the bar owner—comes in, fusses over Tao in slurred, soft, sibilant Mandarin. And sometimes he has the platonic, tender, perfectly passing presses of Sehun’s fingers. Sehun, who also needs somebody to hold. Who also _pines_ and _yearns_ and _aches_.

Tao tries not to let the occasional loneliness weigh too heavy on his shoulders. Tries not to dwell. Because this was a test of sorts, for himself. It’s a matter of indepence, Tao thinks. A question of expanding horizons.

And he _has_ friends. In his coworkers—Chanyeol when he stops being _himself_ long enough to acknowledge Tao, Jongdae in his softer moments, Yixing in his smothering, patronizing affection, Kyungsoo in his reluctant praise and soft voice, Jongin in his sleepy-voiced encouragement, Baekhyun in his fond snark. In his roomate, too, Sehun with his understated support and easy banter. In his classmates, who go halfsies on him for drinks and convenience store breakfasts, lunches, dinners.

But Tao _is_ lonely.

And Joonmyun is a reminder almost. Of what he wants. Could have.

Tao is very, very infatuated.

 

Tao shuffles, scrambles to take off his shoes as he stumbles through his door. Sehun isn’t home yet, has an obscenely early class to attend, so Tao makes enough ramen for them both, drapes himself across the couch as he flicks the television on.

The window is open, and Tao turns during the drama’s commercial breaks to watch the rising sun paint the harsh Seoul skyline in soft oranges, pinks, purples.

Sehun comes home half an hour later.

He’s a Philosophy major. Had an exam early today.

He falls beside Tao wordlessly. Forces him to shift. And Sehun nuzzles into the nape of Tao’s neck immediately. Breathes deeply to inhale his natural scent. Eyelashes fluttering against Tao’s hairline, lips pressed tight to his skin. And Tao tips forward to allow him more touching.

They made out once. After too many shots of soju one stifling summer night. Hot, heavy, hungry, heading somewhere with less clothes, more skin. But then Sehun had gasped somebody else’s name, and Tao had jerked back, wiping at the back of his mouth, scrubbing hard at his face to clear his thoughts. Sehun flushing darkly and curling away, murmuring about needing to take a leak.

It had been something then. A purposeful distraction, a thwarted mistake. But it’s something else now. Something like innocence. Comfort.

“I failed,” Sehun breathes a while later, shifting to thumb at the hem of Tao’s shirt. “I failed, and I’m gonna lose my scholarship, and my parents are gonna disown me. And nobody is gonna ever love me because I’ll be a hot failure. And hot failures are the kind of boys you let blow you at parties, but not—not the kind of boys who you want to hold hands with afterwards.”

Tao turns, presses their noses together, wraps his arms around him. Just holds until Sehun sighs, stomach rumbling, limbs disengaging, hair falling in his eyes as he crawls to the kitchen. Tao gropes under their end table for his textbook as Sehun shuffles forlornly towards the stove.

“Yixing,” Tao calls out after him. “He wants me to invite you to our Chuseok, Mid-Autumn Festival extravaganza next week.”

Yixing hadn’t asked by name. Instead had called for lost puppies, lonely souls, those without enough people to hug them or stuff them with carb-heavy dishes. Sehun qualifies. So do Lu Han, Minseok by association. All the bar staff by obligation. (It’s a tradition, Jongdae had observed dryly. He’s been doing it for like, 5 years)

Tao twists back to look at him, and Sehun is prodding at the ramen with a lone chopstick. There are frog stickers along the length. Shiny and embossed, they catch the light as he stirs.

“I like Yixing,” Sehun is murmuring. “He’s nice. He probably wouldn’t call me a failure. Remind me of all the things I should have accomplished by now.”

Sehun is _19_ , a year younger than Tao.

“Nobody wants to do that, Sehun, come _on_. You probably did _fine_.”

Sehun sighs heavily. “I really, honestly, totally failed. I didn’t even answer one of the essay questions. I was so…” Sehun crashes his head against one of the cabinets, Tao turns in alarm to see. “This is a bad day, Tao.”

Another crash, this one softer. “Tao, take me to your bar tonight. I need to get drunk. I need a win.”

He turns, pouts purposefully, puckers out his bottom lip and lets more sadness bleed into his expression. Eyes downcast, eyebrows tilting just _so_. It’s calculated, but effective. Disgustingly so. And Tao agrees before really realizing it.

Sehun grins in response, but even then it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. And Tao’s chest feels tight.

“Come here,” he says, holding out his arms for a hug like a child, but Sehun complies easily—eagerly—enough, dropping the chopsticks to stumble over, collapse heavily into Tao’s arms with a small, self-deprecating grunt. He cuddles into him for a long, long beat until hunger compels him to the kitchen once more.

 

Tao falls asleep on the couch, wakes up with mussed up hair, upholstery crinkles on his cheeks. He eats breakfast—lunch, really—with Sehun at 3:00PM. Orders McDonald’s at 8:00PM. Does his reading at 9:00PM, starts an essay. Then spends the next hour and a half rifling through his closet, preening in the mirror, Sehun in tow.

 

It’s hardly Sehun’s first time at the bar, but Tao still feels uncomfortable about the whole thing. Wary.

“Don’t gape at him if he comes,” Tao hisses in warning. “And don’t—don’t try to propel anything into motion, okay? I know you mean well, but this is working right now. And I’ll have to deal with the consequences. Just—just talk to Jongdae, Yixing, Chanyeol, Jongin, Kyungsoo, Baekhyun who isn’t working tonight but might show up anyways. Literally anybody else, but please just leave—”

“I know. I know.” And Sehun is dismissing him as he catches Jongdae’s eyes, slides into a bar stool. And oh yes, there’s something to be said for the draw of that, as well.

Jongdae smiles indulgently, smug, attractive, and Tao resents him for always being so smooth and natural. Regardless of the situation. His lips curl up at the corners, kittenish and charming, as he rests his elbows against the counter, flirts with Sehun. And the younger sputters through a drink order.

 

Pining isn’t his usual style. Tao _knows_ he’s hot. Desirable. A Veritable Catch. But Joonmyun is hard to read, and Tao is off-balance and lonely and sad. And Joonmyun is too _nice_. Too polite and friendly and good-natured and handsome. Too _broadly_ interested, and Tao feels so unsure. Joonmyun is kind and charming as a general rule. And Tao doesn’t know whether the way that Joonmyun smiles at him, catches his eyes as he sings sometimes, whether the occasional casual brush of his fingers, whether any of that _means_ something.

Because Tao really, really wants it to. Suffers every weekend from _wanting_.

It’s probably projection, Jongdae had offered the first time Tao had gaped after Joonmyun. Some weird type of transference. He’s like a dad. So you want to make him your _daddy_.

Tao had smacked him with a wet dirty dish rag for that, laughed as Jongdae had squawked about how the smell was so hard to get rid of, fuck, Tao.

But Tao hasn’t resorted to violence since then. He’s moved beyond that, progressed to snide remarks, the occasional sabotaged order.

And he refrains, now, even when Jongdae smiles knowingly in Tao’s direction, angles his chin none-too-discreetly towards the door, whistles the “Wedding March.”

 

Joonmyun isn’t singing today, orders a vodka. Tao isn’t working today, has cause to sidle next to him, cram one hand into his pant pocket to fiddle with his keys when Joonmyun turns to smile at him.

“Oppa,” Tao manages, jokes, “I’m a very big fan. When are you debuting, so I can join your fancafe?”

And two months in the making, this is vaguely anticlimactic, but Joonmyun snorts, presses a quiet laugh into the elbow of his wool sweater. Joonmyun’s eyes are warm and heavy on his. “Do you really think oppa is talented enough to get signed? Make it big?”

“Of course. My love is a good luck charm, oppa.”

Joonmyun hums, eyes hooding, face becoming suddenly solemn. A misstep, an unintentional. Joonmyun takes a sip from his glass, and Tao watches him swallow. The shadows, on this side of the bar, are harsher, paint Joonmyun’s face in more contrasts, more angles. Joonmyun faces away, profile soft and beautiful as he chews thoughtfully on his bottom lip.

“I like music,” Tao tells him, softly, after a beat, tapping his fingers against the counter. “Yours,” he adds in clarification. “It makes my heart hurt. I—I think you’re the best of the open mic performers.”

He’s not as much a powerhouse as Jongdae’s vocal major friend, Jaehwan. Or as ironically amusing as the sing-rapping Wu Yifan. Or as pretty as Lu Han, when he drinks to celebrate his blossoming love, serenades Minseok in a none-too-subtle display of inebriated affection.  
And Joonmyun might not be as objectively talented as any of the nameless, faceless others that filter in by chance. But Joonmyun is captivation, nonetheless. Enraptures Tao every time he sings. He’s so _dynamic_. So handsome.

Joonmyun’s lip quirks at the edge, twists into a shy, soft sort of smile. It’s a welcome relief from the insecure before. “You’re probably not supposed to say that. Preferential treatment and all that.”

“I’m...not,” Tao admits softly, smiling a little guiltily, looking at him from beneath his eyelashes. “But you—you really are.”

Joonmyun’s cheeks look just the slightest bit pinker, his expression softer, eyebrows pinching together to hide beneath his dark bangs.

Tao bites his own bottom lip, watches Joonmyun for probably a beat too long. Then, he flags over Jongdae, matches Joonmyun’s drink order, swirling it in his glass, and he can feel Joonmyun’s eyes on him.

“Does that make me special, Tao?” he jokes, and Tao’s name sound very sweet on Joonmyun’s lips.

Korean still tastes awkward on Tao’s tongue, and Joonmyun makes the words even harder to come by. But he manages well-enough after another sip, another smile. And he continues the conversation. Asks about Joonmyun’s music, his inspiration, his childhood. Responds easily enough when Joonmyun asks him questions, too. He talks about China, his parents, his dreams. Stilted, stumbling at times, they still manage conversation. Smoother as they drink more and more. And he falls further for Joonmyun.

Joonmyun, of the smooth, soft, comforting voice. Smile. Demeanor. Hands as they skate across the counter, fingertips brushing absently against Tao’s.

Joonmyun’s gotten his heart broken a lot, Tao has surmised. From loving too much. Loving too hard. Giving, Tao thinks, romanticizes, to people that don’t deserve him.

(Tao likes to think he deserves Joonmyun. Likes to think that he’d appreciate Joonmyun’s large, beautiful, perfect love. Reciprocate in kind. Never give him cause for heartache, never inspire such such broken, awful, beautiful feelings, such broken, awful, beautiful words)

And Tao isn’t ever one to deny himself, stutter, hesitate, but Joonmyun is his great exception.

Tonight, Tao had also promised himself. Tonight, he’d make a move. But he lets the opportunity pass. The conversation idles, dies and Joonmyun pays his tab, shrugs on his too-heavy coat.

 

Tao watches him leave, longing apparent in his eyes, probably, and Jongdae lets out this long-suffering sigh. “One of these days,” Jongdae says, looking at him meaningfully, “I’m gonna blow him out of spite, Zitao, I fucking swear. And you’ll have only yourself to blame.”

“I’ll just blow Sehun, then,” Zitao counters, and Jongdae’s face pinches in the most gratifying way as Tao tugs his coat on and makes his way towards the door.

Sehun catches the tail end of the conversation, raises an eyebrow, shrugs on his jacket. “What’s this I hear about a blowjob?”

But it’s not really Tao’s secret to tell, so he just shakes his head, shoves Sehun to go faster.

Sehun, tipsy, as he is, giggles as he stumbles forward towards their apartment.

He insists on laying on their carpet, turning on their floor heating and tugging a down comforter on as they cuddle on the living room floor.

 

Days bleed into nights bleed into days. The steady, comforting routine.

 

And classes are cancelled for the holiday, but Tao lingers in the coffee shop near campus, library books balanced on the table in front of him, staked in precarious towers. He stains his notes with coffee, stains his fingers with neon yellow highlighter. Sighs whenever he glances at his watch.

(Yixing said 6, which really means don’t show up until 7:30, but it’s nearing 8, getting cold, and Tao is starting to resent)

He envies Sehun. Sehun, who didn’t fail his midterm. Sehun, who is actually still passing— _acing_ —his class. Sehun, who texts him to say he’s wearing his lucky super skinny jeans, came over right after class. Laughs and flirts and charms, and is well on his way to tipsy if the emoticon-laced texts he keeps sending are any indication.

Sehun, who makes a great show of lifting his legs, presenting his spot with a flourishing arm gesture when Tao shuffles into the bar 45 minutes later. Tao bows a shy, apologetic greeting to Kyungsoo, Chanyeol, Jongin, Baekhyun, Yixing, Jongdae, whacks Sehun’s head for good measure. Sehun laughs, arches into it almost, as he preens up at him. Definitely tipsy, already flushed, handsy.

“Yixing refused to start before everybody came,” he slur-whines, motioning to the food. Pizza boxes, take out containers, tupperware, casserole dishes, bowls and bowls and bowls. “So please come in here. I’ve just been eating pretzels and drinking soju.”

Sehun makes a grab for one of the pizza boxes, but Yixing hisses a “Not yet.” There’s a collective groan. Jongdae’s chin knocks melodramatically against the wood. “Hyung, please, it’s almost 9 pm.”

“But that rule was just fine last year when you were _four_ hours late,” Kyungsoo chides. “Just eat more pretzels.”

Jongdae sputters out a weak protest as he fists another handful, chews obnoxiously loud.

Tao snorts, settles further into his seat.

Tao doesn’t look like he needs caring for, at least not anymore than any of the other people that Yixing has convinced to come. But Yixing seems to _know_ or otherwise runs out of places to force his affection. Reaching over Jongdae, Sehun to pat Tao’s head, then dragging him closer, cooing affectionately, tipsily, as he encases Tao in too-warm, too-persistent arms. Tao wrinkles his nose, complains.

Jongdae tugs him back after a moment, complaining about how he can’t reach the _one_ food source that he’s allowed here in his starvation. Yixing relents only after elbowing Jongdae in the ribs.

And Kyungsoo, seated across from Tao, slides him a shot of soju with an encouraging smile.

 

It’s at 9 that the last guest arrives. Joonmyun apologizes profusely, shivering, causing the box in his mittened hands to shake. He talks about the traffic on the way here. Hopes this cake is enough to make up for it, he’s so _sorry_.

Joonmyun isn’t a lost puppy, a lonely soul, in need of more people to hug him, stuff him with carb-heavy dishes. Isn’t or _shouldn’t be_. But Yixing just smiles placidly when Tao looks at him in distress, in confusion.

“Joonmyun,” Yixing makes a great show of announcing. “I’m glad you came.”

Joonmyun nods, sets down the cake, hesitates before plopping down next to Tao. He lets out a soft, breathy “Hello,” cheeks pink with windburn, curling upward prettily as he smiles, and it makes Tao’s chest tight in the strangest way.

“Alright, let us eat, drink, and be merry!” Yixing encourages.

Jongdae cheers. Sehun raises his fist. Tao grins into his glass.

They eat mooncakes, pizza, pork belly, lasagna, fried chicken. Drink alcohol, too. Beer, soju, box wine, vodka. All in relative silence, Chanyeol’s ipod the only sound save for hums, the clink of spoons, metal chopsticks against glassware.

Jongin rolls a bottle of soju across the table. And seated beside him, Joonmyun laughs, shifts closer. “Give me some,” he insists, voice thick with mirth. Tao’s elbow knocks against Sehun’s side, alcohol sloshing from the trembling bottle in his grip. And Joonmyun’s hand tightens around Tao’s wrist, steadying his hold. _Fuck_ , it’s hot. _Fuck_ , it takes a while for the heat of the touch to wear off. Even after Joonmyun’s disengaged, gone back to scooping rice into his puffy cheeks.

 

Yixing lays out mats afterwards, coaxes them into sitting beside one another on the floor in a lumpy circle. Bottles of alcohol in the middle to keep the conversation going. “It’s a tradition,” he insists. Jongdae, Kyungsoo, who have been here the longest, nod begrudgingly. “This is a bar that holds fast to traditions.” _Traditions that he’s invented_.

He disappears behind the bar, ass up as he gropes underneath the counter to pull out his worn thankfulness cap. It’s a modified shiny birthday hat, and Kyungsoo explains the rules as Yixing places it on his head, snapping the string into place. They are required to reflect, name _at least_ one thing, pass the cap on.

It starts with Kyungsoo, who is grateful for new beginnings. Chanyeol, who blushes hard, ears red as he repeats Kyungsoo. Then Jongdae, who is grateful for new company. Yixing, for _good_ company. Baekhyun, for a blossoming romance with the library science major in his building. Jongin, for his sister’s new baby. Sehun, for bell curves and steady 4 year plans. Tao, Tao hesitates for a long moment. Drags it out.

"I am grateful for..."

"Me, right?" Sehun cuts in, and Tao wrinkle his nose.

“Yes, I am grateful for Oh Sehun.”

“Say it and mean it, or don’t say it all,” Sehun chides. And Joonmyun laughs as he reaches around Tao’s side for a half-empty bottle of soju. He’s smiling widely, charmingly, in Tao’s periphery as he regards their banter. Tao is hyperaware.

“Yes,” he relents. “I am grateful for decent roommates and mediocre friends.”

Sehun preens, nonetheless.

And it’s Joonmyun’s turn. He pauses for a long time, too, fingertips drumming against his own thighs. Close, close to Tao’s own. “Love,” he says finally, “I’m grateful for love. For growth. For change.”

“Again,” Yixing calls out after a pensive beat. “Again and again until we’re overflowing with thankfulness, flush with alcohol.”

The second round is more mundane, more irreverent. Floor heating. 1+1 coupons at CVS. Pizza delivery. Dry cleaning. A new microwave. Flavored lube. The bargain bin.

And by the third, the hat is askew upon the wearer’s head, the entire process devolving into motioning at furniture in the bar, pointing to empty containers of food, naming random cities. But it’s a tradition. The only one they really have.

Joonmyun contributes with his own, the drunker, he gets. He says they should hold hands—his own so small, so soft, so pale, so delicate in Tao’s own. How next year they should make a _craft_ , like keychains, or photo albums. And he suggests they turn to the person to their left, say one thing that they admire. One reason they’re thankful this person is on earth.

Kyungsoo compliments Chanyeol’s ears, causes the elder to flush a satisfying beet red. Chanyeol praises Jongdae’s jawline. Jongdae reaches forward to thumb at Yixing’s dimple. Yixing presses his forehead to Baekhyun’s, murmurs about his _eyes_. Baekhyun pinches Jongin’s cheeks, murmurs about his tenderness. Jongin smiles shyly at Sehun, murmurs about the way he _moves_ like water.

And Sehun grins widely, wickedly when he turns to Tao.

“I’m thankful for Tao’s smile,” he singsongs. From the corner of his eye, he can see Joonmyun’s face crinkle in amusement. Tao’s heart stutters, and he blushes, has to bury his face into his knees. Guffawing, Sehun claps on his back, and Tao groans, nuzzling further into denim. “Come on,” Sehun whines. “You have to—Tao, you still have to do Joonmyun hyung.”

And Tao is well on his way to drunk, but not quite enough for this.

“Oh, he’s being _shy_ ,” Baekhyun whines. “Joonmyun hyung, please, give him a boost of confidence.”

Sehun tugs him up, wraps his arm around Tao’s torso, manhandling him so he’s meeting Joonmyun’s amused, crescent eyes. Joonmyun’s knees brush against his as he scoots closer. “Tao,” he says, very seriously, eyebrows pinching with it. “Tao,” he repeats, when Tao makes to shift away. “No, It is very important that you understand how great you are. You are so handsome. I am really grateful for that.”

Tao lets out an involuntary sound. High-pitched, too loud, before Sehun lets him drop, and Tao squirms, burying his face into his legs anew.

He feels Joonmyun's hand then. Palm skating over the knobs of his spine, and he arches as his skin breaks out in goosebumps, tightening at the caress. “Say something back,” he urges. “Give me one reason, too.”

“You’re very handsome. Your voice, your voice makes me skin feel tight.”

Joonmyun presses a smile into the nape of his neck before pulling away.

“Hug,” Baekhyun insists, with a flailing motion of his hand. Joonmyun does, readily enough. Arms short, but strong, firm and encasing, and Tao stiffens before melting forward, wrapping his arms around Joonmyun, too.

 

And Tao drinks more to make the mortification go away, dulling his senses, slurring his words. Tao is no stranger to alcohol. The the warm fuzzy haze, hugging him from the inside out, make the world pleasantly soft, bright, rendering his tongue extra loose, his limbs extra heavy. But the headiness mixes with the potence and he’s especially loud, especially touchy, giggly. And he has enough presence of mind to think he might regret this later as he leans heavily on Joonmyun’s side. Joonmyun allows it for a bit before shifting, turning to rest against Tao instead. Thigh to thigh, forearm to forearm, eye to eye.

And Tao feels less on edge, and everything is pink and soft and kind. Everything—everyone—is on his side.

“You’re so tall,” Joonmyun observes, stretching his markedly shorter legs, leaning back into Tao’s chest, turning to press his nose against the knit fabric, nuzzling into it almost. His cheeks are flushed with the effects of alcohol, too, eyes overbright, eyelashes heavy. “So _broad_.”

Drunkenness makes Tao imagine that there’s almost want, underneath the appreciation. A certain pointed appraisal in the way that Joonmyun squirms against him.

“Also handsome,” Sehun offers pitchily, pink-faced, crinkle-eyed. “A good kisser, too. Probably great at sex, too, I’d venture to say.”

And Joonmyun is laughing. “Some people really have it all.”

“No, no,” Tao protests. "I still want—I’m not very—”

"Brat,” Joonmyun decides, and Tao's face is so hot. “Selfish and ungrateful, greedy for even more charms.”

“He’s truly the worst.”

“It’s just because he’s our _baby_ ,” Yixing coos, reaching out. Over Jongdae, Sehun, to muss his hair. “Just because he doesn’t know better.”

“I’m not. Don’t baby me,” he groans. Arching nonetheless into the affectionate pat. Out of instinct, against his better nature.

“You _are_ the baby,” Yixing protests, thumbing the bangs out of his eyes.

“The maknae,” Joonmyun agrees. “Small and precious, in need of protecting.”

Tao grumbles louder, tries to twist away, intoxicated and indignant. “I'm taller than most of you. Sehun is _younger_ than me.”

Yixing nods in concession. “Yes, but less baby than you.”

Sehun nods at that, too. “You’re the baby,” he insists. “Really, Tao. You like it, too. That’s what you’re _really_ grateful for.”

“Shut up,” he whines, hearing the petulance in his own voice, but unable to help it. Jongdae brays with laughter.

Joonmyun hooks his fingers into the sleeve of Tao’s sweater. Handsy, too, when drunk, smiley, laughing, adorable. Joonmyun tugs him closer, knees knocking against his. Turning him bodily from the group. His grin is all teeth, crinkled eyes. “Wanna talk.”

This is probably why he doesn’t drink usually, Tao thinks.

And Tao’s not sure if this is better or worse. Joonmyun’s undivided, drunken attention.

“Tao,” he intones slowly, blinking deliberately. “Happy Mid Autumn Festival,” he continues in Mandarin.

His Chinese is stilted, but perfect, probably stiff from disuse. “Is that right?” he asks, and Tao nods, smiles softly.

“I’m very...rusty, but I— _practiced_.” Joonmyun’s eyebrows pinch together in concentration. “You’re a good person. A good friend,” he says in Mandarin, and Tao feels his cheeks suffuse with color, with heat. “So cute,” Joonmyun groans. He falls forward, presses his nose into Tao’s shoulder, and Tao can feel the warmth of it even through the layer of cotton. And his intoxication only underscores his words.

“You,” Tao argues back, and Joonmyun smiles against his arm.

And it’s not a move, not a concrete communication of desire, but Tao reaches out to touch Joonmyun’s hair. And it’s just as soft and silky as Tao has imaged, staticky and clinging to his sweater sleeve as he pulls away.

“I’m grateful for this,” Joonmyun says softly, seeming to decide, leaning up so the words brush against Tao’s wrist. Tao jerks back. “I’m grateful for this. This moment here with you.”

Joonmyun lets out a self-deprecating sound after a heavy, heavy beat of just staring at him with the most solemn sincerity. Exhaling quickly through his pursed lips.

“I’m very cheesy,” he chuckles. “But that doesn’t make it a lie, you know. You’re so _broody_ and stiff and quiet, but this—I like you like this.”

 

And Tao decide he wants to _know_.

“Your ex?” Tao ventures, prodes, slurs. “You said love and change. That means you’re grateful for your ex? The one you sing about?”

The one that caused your chest to implode. The one that stole the sun’s shine.

Joonmyun’s smile falters, loses its shine, its brightness, dimming, as his eyes shutter to half-mast. “My ex. Yeah, I suppose I kind of meant that, too. It was a new beginning, you know. Because if I hadn’t been left, I wouldn’t have…”

Joonmyun trails off with a sighing hiccup.

“Come here,” Tao supplies. “Come here to become a part of our ‘family.’” He lifts his fingers in air quotes, and Joonmyun’s smile is less strained. More open.

“Yeah. I wouldn’t have moved into the city. Wouldn’t have started singing, writing again. Wouldn’t have had this lovely, drunken moment with you. And it only cost one heartbreak.”

“Why did you two...why did your—?”

“My ex?” Joonmyun puffs out his cheeks before exhaling very slowly, and Tao curses the lack of pronouns once more even as Joonmyun stiffens, smile fading. “I would be thankful if we discussed something else.”

“Your music,” Tao scrambles to redirect. But that’s the wrong thing to say, too, because Joonmyun’s eyes don’t recover their warm, don’t crinkle.

(The moment is wrong, the mood sour, the conversation dead. Hardly optimum conditions for any move or confession of sorts. So Tao postpones it again. Reasons that there’s always the slow promise of another week. Joonmyun with another song. In another sweater. Jongdae with another joke.)

 

He drags Sehun home, wakes up with the hangover, but can’t bring himself to regret it.

 

There’s a shift in their relationship, friendship, acquaintanceship after that.

 

Joonmyun continues to perform. The lyrics change. Become more personal, no more sacred. He sings about hairline fractures in his heart, a beauty of the fleeting kind. And Tao sighs aloud as he takes more orders, wipes the counter down.

And Tao continues to hesitate. Continues to promise himself that next time, when the stars are aligned just _so_.

 

Now more officially a part of the _bar family_ , Joonmyun gets invited to Yixing’s birthday party, Chanyeol’s too, a month later. They are traditions for that, too. Distinct in their oddity. Their patchwork customs.

There is fried chicken, sea weed soup, an ice cream cake, a piñata, a staticky karaoke machine, pin the tail on the donkey, alcohol, one kiss from each person in the room for every year you have been alive. Then Yixing passes out a felt tip marker, asks every person to write their favorite thing about the birthday person—boy, usually—on their favorite body party.

(Yixing gets _handsome_ on his dimple, Chanyeol gets _kind_ on his ears)

And it’s at the latter’s birthday, everybody huddled around the table (Joonmyun is sitting across from him now, Jongdae to his left, Yixing to his right), chopsticks poised, that Yixing announces a new modified tradition.

 

A Christmas pageant, of sorts, he declares with a flourish. A talent show, more appropriately. Singing, dancing, rapping, acting, playing an instrument. It’ll be held on the 20th, the weekend before Christmas.

It’s a competition, officially, but more an exercise in _bonding_. An attempt at matchmaking, too, Chanyeol leans forward to whisper, grin widening when Kyungsoo smiles at him warily.

The competition will be open to patrons. It’s mandatory, but they can pick what talent they way to showcase. Pair up, too.

(“I don’t like to lose,” Jongdae tells him, not unkindly, “so I won’t be working with you obviously”)

It’s for fun, but Yixing is firm on this as a necessity.

Joonmyun whistles through his teeth, and Tao swirls peevishly at rice bowl, scowling.

Kyungsoo with Chanyeol, Jongdae’s “taking care of it,” Yixing is dancing solo, Jongin as well, and Baekhyun is googling lyrics on his phone, humming obnoxiously loud to himself as he decides.

Tao is alone. Joonmyun catches his distressed glance, eyes softening. “Is it—is it just for people that work here?” he asks. And Tao feels like he’s being hugged from the inside out.

“No,” Chanyeol protests. “That’s not fair. You said this was a bar specific talent show. He doesn’t even work here.” Tao turns to glower at him. “Are we allowed to invite outsiders? Doesn’t that defeat the whole purpose? Is Jongdae allowed to bring fellow vocal students, then? That’s not _fair_.”

“That’s _exactly_ what I plan on doing, Chanyeol,” Jongdae cuts in, rising. “You can’t fucking stop me. I have _seniority_ , and Yixing already said it was okay.”

“You _knew_ about this?” Chanyeol’s voice rises in indignation. “And you didn’t tell me? Even though—you were gonna fucking betray me on my _birthday_?!”

“Just go with fucking Kyungsoo.”

“Kyungsoo actually works here. It’s not cheating to use in-house talent. Open-mic favorites, people that are studying this for a leaving, they shouldn’t _count_.”

Kyungsoo grips his wrist, murmurs something soft about how they’ll kick ass regardless, and Chanyeol grumbles once more for good measure.

“I wouldn’t mind,” Joonmyun’s saying, and Tao finds himself hiding to a too-bright grin behind his hand. “I—Can I work with Tao?”

Yixing nods, and Joonmyun reaches across the table, rests his hand on Tao’s. Tao squirms at the touch but doesn’t protest when Joonmyun motions towards the floor. They should start practicing.

Tao agrees readily, eagerly. And the others follow suit, dispersing into groups.

 

“I’m sorry about that,” Joonmyun says, resting his hand—the hand that had attempted to comfort Tao earlier—on own lap. And his limbs are a frustratingly safe distance away.

Tao doesn’t know if it’s better, worse. Doesn’t dwell on it on it further as Joonmyun hesitates.

“So, do you have a...talent?” Joonmyun starts, tone delicate.

“I can…” Tao trails off, face pinching as he thinks. Stand. Dance if you give me enough alcohol.

“Look cute?” Joonmyun offers.

“Silent and brooding,” Tao counters. “Intimidating.”

“Cute,” Joonmyun repeats. Tao’s nose wrinkles. And Joonmyun repeats it. Softer this time. Adds “definitely” as a qualifier.

“It’s not a talent.”

“Can you sing? Harmonize with me, maybe?”

Tao’s skin tingles as he murmurs a soft “maybe.”

“We can do a Christmas song. Wear matching sweaters.” _Like a couple_.

And the prickling at the back of Tao’s neck becomes even stronger, his skin breaking out in goosebumps at the prospect.

“I’ll play guitar,” Joonmyun continues. “We’ll be singing together, so you don’t have to worry too much about all the attention or scrutiny. Does that work?”

Tao breathes a “yes,” and Joonmyun’s answering grin is so bright, it almost hurts to look at it.

“Rehearse with me,” he insists. “I won’t laugh at you, promise.”

(It’s not the right time, right then, either. Under Joonmyun’s tutelage and all. Too messy if they’re music partners. Tao delays it further. Tries not to focus overmuch on the fact that he’ll probably be spending a _lot_ of time with Kim Joonmyun in the near future)

 

He does. They do. And the warmth of it is a nice contrast to the worsening weather.

 

Always present, now Joonmyun’s more actively engaged. Even more dynamic, even more captivating, actively initiating conversation. Joonmyun lingering after his show. Coming in Tuesdays, Thursdays, too, when Tao is on shift. Chatting with Tao. Asking him out to coffee, meeting him in cafes to practice their song, their lines. Texting Tao to ask how his day is going, urge him to stay warm. Joonmyun making it better, worse.

It’s not less difficult, _necessarily_ —Tao’s throat still catches on his words sometimes and his fingers feel jittery with the need to _impress_ Joonmyun—but it’s a barrier crossed. And Tao likes the way that Joonmyun watches him as he speaks, eyes completely focused like Tao is the most important thing in the entire world at the very moment. Like Tao is all that Joonmyun sees. It’s disconcerting, distressingly heady, and Tao chases the high. Even as he squirms away from hypersensitivity.

But it’s still not a _move_. Tao’s still wading in friendship waters, not hinting at the startling depth of his _want_. The fathoms and fathoms of it.

Sehun pesters. Jongdae threatens. Yixing smiles knowingly. Baekhyun teases. Jongin consoles. Chanyeol, Kyungsoo can’t really be bothered to care.

 

And it gets _cold_. The kind of cold Tao can feel in his bones, sneaking underneath his clothes, bone deep, biting, burning, isolating and overwhelming.

It’s nearing winter now, and Joonmyun has taken to wearing thicker fabrics, darker colors. Wool, tweed, corduroy, dark-washed denim.

He looks like Mr. Rogers. Cute, unassuming, markedly _handsome_. Until he opens his mouth, _seduces_ with his voice or his eyes.

And it’s the interplay that has Tao falling so hard.

And Tao would have thought that would be a downgrade—less skin—but Joonmyun looks like a grandpa in his woolen sweater. Looks like he plays Scrabble. Volunteers at the library. Birdwatches. Does 1000 piece jigsaw puzzles in his spare time.

And Tao knows that he _does_. That he is the perfect, tousled hair, wide eyed crinkle smiling boy-next-door that all the American teen dramas sigh over. The kind of man for first kisses and picnics in the park. The kind of man for smiley couple sweater renditions of “All I Want for Christmas.”

Joonmyun is slight, unimposing. But handsome. Talented. Captivating. _Hot_. Passionate. Fierce. Beautiful in his solemn words. His slow strums. His soft, moving words. His wide, clear, dark, dark eyes.

 

Two weeks before the performance, his cheeks are flushed and windburned, his hair in his eyes, fingers tapping against the varnished wood as he grins at Tao, laughs at his own trembling fingers.

Joonmyun stays after his performance. Sits long, long after, he orders drink after drink, eyes increasingly shiny, cheeks increasingly flushed. He steeples his fingers, disgustingly adorable as he smiles up at Tao. “I don’t want to go home,” he slurs. “It is very cold outside. I want to live here. Let me live here with you.”

“I don’t live here,” Tao laughs, and Joonmyun pouts. His lower lip is very slick, very pink as it juts out childishly.

“You really should. All the alcohol. Great company. Good music. I want to live here. Live with you.”

And Tao wants that, too. Wants to kiss him. Wants Joonmyun to snuggle closer to him, keep him warm, cuddle into him. Keep him warm through the cold winter nights. Maybe fuck the shivers out of his body, fuck new shivers into him. Hold his hand afterwards, kiss his eyelids, whisper his name because Joonmyun seems the type. Or Tao at the very least _hopes_ he is.

 

Tao does not even feign at being proactive in his pursuit.

 

The next morning—next afternoon, really—Joonmyun asks if he is really down for the matching outfits deal to their performance. And Tao texts back an affirmative, heart in his throat as Joonmyun insists they should have brunch—Joonmyun, as the hyung, will of course foot the bill—then they can try to find a couple outfit.

They meet the subway stop. Exit 3. Joonmyun is wearing a scarf, ear muffs, a bright smile. His hair is pushed back, styled up.

“New product,” he laughs, fusses with the hair near his ears, hands clumsily and mittened. His breath puffs white as he speaks, and he looks older, hotter, less approachable.

Tao’s throat closes up.

“Let’s go,” Joonmyun urges.

They eat omelets in Myeongdong. Joonmyun laughs, smudges at Tao’s mouth, where there’s still sauce, he thinks. And it’s cliche the way his heart skips.

And they go shopping in the immediate area. Sift through racks. Joonmyun grins widely—unironically—at the particularly gaudy ones, and Tao’s heart swells with affection.

They decide on matching Rudolph the Reindeer sweaters. Knit, with big sequins for the nose, the eyes. Joonmyun grabs a small, Tao a large. They share adjoining fitting rooms. Come out at the count of three.

The sleeves are too long on Joonmyun’s sweater, and the cut only serves to emphasize the difference in their bodies. Still too loose on Joonmyun’s frame. But tight across Tao’s shoulders, bunchy around his stomach.

Joonmyun looks adorable. Tao—Tao sighs at his own reflection in the floor-length mirror.

“You’re—”

“I look ridiculous,” Tao decides. “It bunches in the middle too much, and the sleeves aren’t long enough. And I don’t like how—”

“You’re so handsome,” Joonmyun’s noting, laughing, patronizing. “Stop fishing for compliments.” He _isn’t_ , and Joonmyun’s tone is very fond. But how is Zitao supposed to know if he _means_ it?

“I get that the point is to reduce the sex appeal. Make us these sexless grandpa sweater wearing drones, but it’s ill-fitting, hyung.”

“No,” Joonmyun insists. “It’s to make us look like we’re partners. Make us look _cute_. But if you really want to, I’m sure you can manage to make bedroom eyes while wearing this, no problem.”

“That’s—that’s not the point. I think I want to—I don’t want to wear this one. I don’t want people to—”

“Oh no,” Joonmyun laughs in chiding mock sympathy. It’s a breathless huff that pulls up his cheeks, makes his eyes dance in mirth. And Joonmyun is so _beautiful_. “Tao might be _embarassed_.”

“I’m not—talented. I don’t want to be _laughed_ at. I don’t know why Yixing thinks this is a good idea.”

“That’s not the point,” Joonmyun say, tone softening. Eyes, too. Startlingly intimate considering they’re in public. “Not really.”

“There’s a cash prize,” Tao counters. “The others, they’ve paired up. It’s serious for them, you _saw_ , and I’m just—”

“I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to be fun. I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to be a little embarrassed and a lot drunk.”

“You never are,” Tao grumbles. “You’re completely sober and completely perfect out there.”

“You take yourself too seriously,” he chides. “Think that everybody isn’t already in love with you.”

“That’s not true. I _know_ I’m—” Attractive, charming, a delight to be around. Tao tries to communicate this with a broad sweep, motioning his hand from the crown of his head to his waist, and Joonmyun nods in agreement.

“Then why does it matter?”

“Because, because if I’m in front of all those people, and I’m supposed to be _ridiculous_ , and I want more control in how I present myself. I don’t want to...” Tao huffs in frustration. Words failing him. Korean still too _wrong_ at expressing his deeper, darker insecurities.

“You _care_ too much, Tao.”

Tao groans, itches to bury his face in his hands. Tugs at the hem of his shirt. Joonmyun’s eyes follow the movement.

“I don’t know...I only know how to care.”

Joonmyun bites his lower lip as he regards him, eyes dark and searching as they meet his. “Well, then let’s do our best to guarantee you measure up to your own impossible standards.”

They decide on a different pair. With embossed Christmas trees. They have sequined ornaments, working Christmas lights. Come with special instructions for washing. And it’s still too tight around his shoulders, bunches around his stomach unflatteringly, but the sleeves are long enough. And Joonmyun grins widely as he appraises his outfit.

Joonmyun pays for this, too. Parts with a brief squeeze to Tao’s wrist on the subway. Asks him to keep practicing. But to not—to not let this weigh too heavy. Christmas is coming up, and he shouldn’t strain himself.

Tao squeezes back hard. Tries to inject enough _meaning_ into his gaze.

It’s not a move but maybe if he’s just, just a little bit more. A little bit firmer.

(He doesn’t. Will, though. He will. Eventually)

 

It’s Tao’s first Christmas away from home.

Jongdae volunteers rather sweetly to be his family. We can get drunk on eggnog, if you want, he offers. Hyung will buy you presents. Let you cuddle under the covers. Kiss you if he’s drunk enough.

And Tao informs him, nose upturned, that Sehun would be better. Sehun, of course, agrees. And Jongdae makes a big show of being _very offended_ and _very hurt_ by the entire ordeal.

Tao is still alone, effectively speaking, but signing up for classes, shopping for his present, Skyping with his parents, practicing with Joonmyun, they all help soothe the ache a little.

 

That Friday, the Friday before the performance, there is snow in Joonmyun’s hair—little snowflakes glistening as they stick to his bangs—and Joonmyun laughs when Tao motions to it. He removes his mittens, blows on his hands, and small, nimble, his fingers brush absently at his bangs then tap a restless tattoo as he orders a ginger ale.

And Tao watches them absently as Joonmyun smiles, sips from his drink. He thinks of those hands laced with his, inside of him, maybe maybe even tightened around his hipbones, around his throat as he’s fucked _hard_.

Tao swallows back a groan. Lips his lips before biting down.

Joonmyun orders a Coke, too.

And on stage, even in front of all of those people, there is softness, vulnerability, longing there. His voice is melodious, soothing. The contrasts are so pronounced that Tao ‘s breath catches in his throat. And Tao thinks as he scrubs at his dishes, wipes the counter, hears the words—the words he can make out, translate fast enough to appreciate—that he’d like to fill that need for Joonmyun. Like to be his love.

Maybe Joonmyun really wants to find somebody to give that vast, vast love to. Somebody to love and treasure anew.

Tao’s _in too deep_.

 

True to habit, true to form, Joonmyun lingers. Long, long after. Until it’s just Tao, Joonmyun, a lone woman at the other end of the bar talking to Jongdae.

Joonmyun claims a seat directly in front of the cash register, right in front of Tao, but this time it’s Tao leaning forward to initiate conversation. “I want to ask you something,” he starts.

Joonmyun is swirling his ice around in his empty glass, looks up, lips pursed in a pretty pink pucker. “Shoot.”

“Well, your music is very...sad. But very—it’s always me and you. Never, never he or she, the way it is in other songs.” Joonmyun nods.

“Is it on purpose?” he continues. “Making it so that everybody can relate?”

Joonmyun bows his head in a shy smile. “Something like that.”

That’s not an answer. Not a concrete. Not an _answer_.

“It’s why it’s vague, too,” Joonmyun says after a moment, scooting closer, elbows knocking together as he huddles over his drink. “Like just, my heart hurts, and I feel empty inside after all that I gave. I didn’t wash our pillow cases for a month because they still smelled like you. I called your phone just to hear you breathing. I had to throw away all your dandruff shampoo and bodywash, because it hurt too much seeing those bottles. But not, you know, we broke up on a Sunday. You were wearing my favorite shirt. That stuff’s too personal. Too sacred.”

Tao hums in acknowledgement, and Joonmyun leans further forward.

“I want to get it all out there. Let the music be catharsis. Let others find solace in my hurt. But I also—you know—it’s not fair to a person. To broadcast just my story. To, I don’t know, use our shared hurt like that. But at the same, I don’t know. Fuck you for breaking my heart.”

“That’s diplomatic,” Tao breathes. “Kind. Very _you_. I really like it.”

Joonmyun flushes, tugs at his ear. “It’s really—” he murmurs, dipping his head shyly. And Tao blushes, too, as he realizes what he’s said. “You always—why do you want to know so much about that part of my life?”

“I guess—I enjoy your passion. Your music,” Tao says. “You’re helping me because of it right now. And I hear you every Friday. And I want to understand it. I want to know about the person that...made you write like that.”

“Yeah, my...my ex.”

“Your ex,” Tao echoes.

And Joonmyun’s mouth thins.

Sehun is so _sure_. (Or at least speaks with a false bravado to boost Tao’s morale).

But Tao doesn’t know. Doesn’t want to assume. Doesn’t know how to proceed asking. And Joonmyun avoids pronouns, even now. When it’s very late. When it’s only them, cocooned in the soft haze of late late nights, the surreal intimacy of it as they thrum with alcohol.

This part is still too sacred to share with Tao. It feels like a calculated distance, and Tao can’t stand it anymore.

“Girlfriend? Boyfriend? Something in between? None of the above?” he insists and Joonmyun’s eyes widen the slightest, mouth parting in surprise, too. “Who broke your heart, Joonmyun hyung?”

“Girlfriend,” Joonmyun says. And something in Tao—hope—cracks, as he braces his hands on the counter separating them. Anger and indignation curl painfully in his gut because he’s been—this entire time, he’s just been—

“I fucking _knew_ it.” His voice is louder than it needs to be, his motions jerky. And Joonmyun pulls back in alarm.

“Knew what?”

“Fucking Sehun said, but I fucking _knew_ it. Fucking _fuck_.”

“Tao, I don’t understand—”

“Jongdae, can you—I need to go outside,” Tao interrupts. Not allowing him a chance to react properly before he’s shrugging on his coat, hurrying into the night air to clear his thoughts.

But it’s too cold outside. The ugly golden streetlights reflecting off the snow. Tao can only last a minute before he’s shivering violently. Teeth chattering, limbs trembling, eyes fluttering against the persistent, biting gusts of wind, he blinks back tears, scrubs uselessly at his face, before stumbling back inside.

By that point, Joonmyun is gone. He must have taken another door. Tao is grateful.

 

Joonmyun texts him the next morning. Several notifications buzzing his phone in quick succession. He asks if he’s okay. If he’s not, what Joonmyun has done to upset him. And whether he still wants to be partners for the performance. Whether he would prefer Joonmyun just not come to the bar anymore. He would understand. Or would like to. Can he call? Can they talk?

 

He can. They do. Tao blames it on the sudden drop in weather. Says he wasn’t feeling well. Tries to let the crush die. Wills away the feelings now that he knows there’s no hope of ever making a move, having anything but an unrequited love.

 

Monday, Joonmyun invites Tao to a hip café, neutral territory. They order lattes, sit on beanbag chairs, practice.

Tuesday, he comes in mid shift with words of encouragement, a tupperware container of sugar cookies—of course he would _bake_. He stays only long enough to pat Tao’s head, ask him to text if he needs anything, Joonmyun knows that he’s very stressed what with finals and work and this performance on top of that, too. But Joonmyun is proud of him, believes in him.

Wednesday, Joonmyun sends Kakao stickers of encouragement, “Hwaiting!” throughout the day.

Thursday, he says he can’t come in, he has a project at work. But he’s been practicing, too. “Imagine if he win,” he sends. “What do you want to do with the cash prize? How do you want to rub it in Baekhyun’s face?” Tao grins at his phone as he replies, helps Yixing arrange the last of their decorations. Ugly, gaudy Christmas baubles, shiny presents, mistletoe, fake snow. They hang up the last of the fliers.

 

Joonmyun arrives early on Friday. Distressingly early. Right as Tao does for his own shift. His nose is bright pink from where it peeks out from his scarf, and he’s balancing a tote bag  on one bulky shoulder, his guitar case on the other. He sets them both down on the counter as he bows in quick, breathless greeting. Joonmyun peels the layers—scarf, coat, hoodie, wool cardigan, knit pullover—until Tao can see that he’s wearing a tie, has an ID badge hanging from his neck. He reaches inside his canvas bag to pull out a santa cap, tossing it in Tao’s direction as the younger shrugs off his own coat.

“I also,” he starts, “for our outfit. I thought it would pull us together nicely.”

Tao grins as he pulls the cap on, and Joonmyun reaches inside again to pull out his own hat, his own sweater, tugging it over his head as Tao slides behind the bar. There is a small mountain of fabric in the seat beside Joonmyun. Joonmyun chuckles when Tao motions to it with his thumb.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Joonmyun notes as he scans the room, taps the base of the tiny Christmas tree Jongdae had placed by their usual comment card box. “The _ambience_.” There is Christmas music echoing off the empty walls.

Joonmyun points upwards, and Tao blinks in confusion before squirming uncomfortably.

“Mistletoe,” Joonmyun observes. And yes, Baekhyun had helped hang this up, too. Waggled his eyebrows as he talked about inspiring even more romance, as he tended to take credit for both Chanyeol’s and Kyungsoo’s and Lu Han’s and Minseok’s relationships.

“Yeah,” Tao concedes. “Mistletoe.”

Joonmyun purses his lips, twists his fingers in his napkin, but his tone is falsely casual, deceptively light. Tao’s stomach twists strangely, painfully as Joonmyun hesitates. He doesn’t understand. “You’re—you’re supposed to kiss, right? Maybe it can be. For—for good luck, right?”

It sounds like a very bad idea.

“That’s for Americans, hyung.”

“But—for good luck,” Joonmyun insists. “Just a little peck.” He raises his eyebrow in fond, joking persuasion, and Tao leans forward, relents.

Across the bar, the hard wood pressing into his stomach, he cranes forward to press his lips to Joonmyun’s.

The chasteness of it is sweet, soft, but still stinging in a small, small corner of Tao’s mind that insists that Joonmyun is kissing him out of obligation. Out of duty. Maybe even out of compassion because he’s noted that longing. Indulged out of pity. And the mistletoe is _right there_.

Tao hates himself a little bit for even pressing closer, parting his lips, coaxing Joonmyun into moving his mouth more fully against his. Plush and warm, there’s the slightest give, and Tao presses for more just, just briefly as Tao’s fingers skitter needily across the counter to brush against Joonmyun’s mittened hand. And Joonmyun sucks on his bottom lip, top, hums, pulls away.

But he’s still too close, lips just a whisper away as he murmurs. “We can do it,” he says, and there’s a lump in Tao’s throat, a certain heavy _need_ fogging his mind as he nods in agreement.

Joonmyun pulls back fully, then. Grabs a handful of peanuts, orders a ginger ale.

 

Tao is in a daze afterwards—long, long afterwards—scalp tingling, skin trembling, mind thick with the aftereffects. And Joonmyun is smiling widely, easily. Unaffected, save for the warmth in his eyes.

 

The talent show starts at 9PM. Goes on without hitch.

Chanyeol and Kyungsoo sing an acoustic rendition “Baby It’s Cold Outside,” wearing matching sweaters, too, Chanyeol strumming his guitar as he juts out his lower lip, urges Kyungsoo to stay the night, Kyungsoo playing coy, gliding closer only to jerk away. Jongdae, Jaehwan follow with a soulful, moving performance of “Silent Night,” lights dimmed, acapella, voices echoing. Yixing is next, lights dimmed, too, as he moves slow and smooth, like water, limbs long and lean and lithe, keeping time with the soft strains of “Oh Holy Night.” Jongin’s solo is after, distinct pops, smooth sways, graceful movements as the speakers ooze out a piano-heavy “Little Drummer Boy.” And the lights go on anew for Baekhyun, who grain widely before breaking out into an impassioned “Jingle Bells.”

They saved the best for last, Joonmyun jokes, wrapping his fingers around Tao’s wrist as a flushed Jongdae jumps over the bar to take his place.

And that happens in a sort of daze, too. As they sit side by side on their matching benches, wearing matching sweaters, matching hats, matching grins. Joonmyun oozes a calm sort of self-assurance, has an aura of charisma, like he knows that he belongs right there on stage. And Tao is enveloped in it, too, white cotton puff bopping against the ugly material of his sweater as he sings.

“All I want for Christmas is you,” he croons, stopping occasionally to make eyes at an audience member, bite his lip, wink suggestively, and at his side, Joonmyun bites back a grin, handsome and happy.

People cheer loudly at the conclusion, and Joonmyun makes a great show of offering his hand as Tao rises, so they can bow together, smile widely.

“Good, right?” Joonmyun whispers. “They love you, see?”

Tao nods minutely, face hot.

 

The results are announced soon after. Based on audience cheers. The temp, for-the-night hires man the bar, and Sehun serves as an impromptu MC, of sorts. He calls them on the stage one-by-one, has them bow, pose, attempt to charm.

Jongdae, Jaehwan are declared the winners. Jaehwan whoops, wrangles Kyungsoo into an unceremonious too-long hug. Kyungsoo wrestles free with a hard, hard shove.

And Jongdae screams, jumps, climbs up to kiss Sehun square on the mouth. And it’s been a while in the making, but catches the younger by surprise, nonetheless. His arms flailing briefly before reaching to wrap tightly around a narrow waist, a warm eager body. Tao turns away but not before seeing the way that Sehun’s lips part as Jongdae tugs on the hair at the nape of his neck.

 

The bar closes soon after. The crowd empties. And Tao, no longer on the clock, congratulates a beaming, bruised-lipped Jongdae, nods in introduction to a grinning Jaehwan. Excuses the rest broadly, goes to get his coat.

Yixing’s left the keys with him. Asked him to lock up.

He plans on going home, getting drunk, watching drama marathons, teasing Sehun mercilessly for his very public display of affection.

But he sees instead that Joonmyun has lingered. The elder grins up at him in a way that pushes his cheeks up, crescents his eyes. Joonmyun stands near him. Repeats how proud he is. Tao waves the praise away.

And there have been great strides made, but Tao is still helpless to his body’s reactions, still too hypersensitive to the sound of Joonmyun’s voice, the briefest brush of skin. He shudders bodily when Joonmyun reaches out to squeeze the tension from his shoulders. He lets out this soft, surprised sound, and he stiffens then, arches from oversensitivity. Away, as his skin breaks out in goosebumps, overheats.

He whirls around to meet Joonmyun’s eyes, smiling guiltily. “I’m…”

Joonmyun’s face pinches, and he moves closer.

“You don’t like me much, right?” Joonmyun asks softly. He’s so oblvious. It’s awful. He’s so fucking cute in his Christmas tree sweater. So fucking slight and captivating and perfect. “I—I crossed a line back there, right?”

“You—you make me nervous,” Tao clambers to explain.

Joonmyun furrows his eyebrows. “Why?”

“It’s just you’re so—and your music makes me _cry_ , and you’re so kind and sweet and soft and I just feel kinda small when you smile at me or talk to me. Because you're so much, almost too much, and I’m still just trying to—”

“You _like_ me.” Joonmyun’s voice is breathless with alarm.

“ _Yes_ ,” Tao barrels on. “And I’ve been trying to—”

“You _like_ me,” Joonmyun repeats, louder this time, dazed. “You have a—a _crush_ on me.”

“Yes.”

“That’s— _fuck_ —that’s amazing.”

“I—”

“You’re always—you don’t usually let me touch you. You tense up whenever I even try. And sometimes you look like it almost pains you to talk to me. Like you’re bracing yourself. And I’ve been trying to make it easier for you. And I just—fuck—I just.” Joonmyun shakes his head. “How was I supposed to—you _like_ me?”

“I know I haven’t been very good about—”

“You’ve been fucking awful, Huang Zitao. You're so hot and cold. I thought, I thought we were reluctant friends at best. And I just—I thought I was the only one.”

_The only one, the only one, the only one_.

Hope is blooming in Tao’s chest. Previously fractured and ugly and broken, it’s a tentative sort of warmth that animates his limbs. He’s breathless with precarious possibility, anticipation.

Joonmyun lets out a choked laugh. Paces. Runs a hand through his hair. Musses it up.

He turns back to Tao. “Tao,” he says softly, tone hesitant, eyes bare. He moves closer, step by step, movements slow and deliberate.

Their foreheads bump, and Joonmyun turns to nose at his cheekbone. Too cold, too hesitant, and maybe—maybe Joonmyun is scared, too. “Can I kiss you?” he asks softly, and Tao nods almost imperceptibly. It’s enough.

Joonmyun is still wearing his Christmas hat, and Tao tugs it off. He buries his hands in Joonmyun’s dark, dark hair— the softest, silkiest strands—drags him towards his mouth. He makes sure to make it more thorough now. Deeper. So there’s no question about his want. He parts his lips almost immediately, glides his tongue out, and Joonmyun strains upwards, tugs on his neck, trying to match his height.

“Too short,” Tao laughs into his mouth, and Joonmyun grumbles, hooks his thumbs into Tao’s belt loops to drag him even closer, slotting a thigh between his. Tao’s body arches forward, his legs jerk out, his elbows do, too, and Joonmyun presses him back against the bar. The wood digs into his lower back as Joonmyun crowds into him. Small, slight, unimposing, but looming, captivating. It’s all hard, solid lines, warm, warm eagerness.

He slides his hands under Tao’s ugly sweater, gripping at warm, trembling skin. He tightens his hold, tilts Tao’s hips up to grind against him. Tao’s neck goes limp, and his arms search for purchase as Joonmyun kisses him again, moaning into his mouth.

And Tao knocks over a stray glass as Joonmyun shifts to suck on his neck, teeth scraping at his neck. “Yixing’s gonna kill me,” Tao groans, and Joonmyun laughs against his jaw. “Worth it though,” he gasps.

“Haven’t even started,” Joonmyun murmurs, pulling just slightly away, eyes heavy, lips parted. “Want to keep going.”

“I didn’t know you were—Sehun said, but I didn’t know you were—And then you—girlfrieeeeeend”

“I’m half,” Joonmyun laughs. Groans as Tao coaxes him into another kiss. Tao moves his tongue filthily, scrapes his teeth against Joonmyun’s lip, moans at the heady, heavy taste. “75%,” Joonmyun concedes.

“I’m—I’m 100%,” Tao informs him. Joonmyun cups his cheek, urges him even closer, and Tao moans into his mouth. “Like completely and utterly into men like you.”

Joonmyun groans at that. Hands bolder, wandering, they skate up his sides, bunch fabric further as they thumb teasingly at nipples.

Tao fists Joonmyun’s hair again, shifts to suck on the side of his neck, and Joonmyun grinds down, spine dipping with the most delicate arch. “More?” Joonmyun presses.

“More,” Tao agrees with a pant.

“Let me—let me take you home.”

Tao shivers as he nods.

 

They take a cab, touches heavy and searching even there. Joonmyun small, slight, unimposing, but so fucking persistent, tugging down Tao’s scarf to sear kisses along Tao’s throat, and Tao’s head is dizzy with want, his moans low in his throat.

Joonmyun pays the fare, drags him up two flight of stairs, hand warm and insistent on his. Joonmyun keys in his code, and Tao stumbles after him. He’s pressed against the door, head knocking against frames.

There’s a static shock when their lips collide, and Joonmyun smiles against his mouth, nuzzles against his nose. “We’re electric,” he says, and Tao reaches around him, grabs a fistful of hair to pull him back hard, kiss him even harder. Joonmyun’s lips part with the softest sound.

It’s been building up over months. Delayed gratification, Tao thinks hotly, because they’ve both been wanting this. And it’s Joonmyun making the move. Joonmyun knotting his warm, persistent fingers in the ugly fabric of Tao’s sweater as he bites down on his bottom lip.

“How do you want this?” he whispers against the corner of Tao’s mouth, and Tao squirms slightly under the scrutiny, panting, his own hands braced on the slim solid anchor of Joonmyun’s waist.

“You should fuck me,” he decides. “With your cock in my ass.”

Joonmyun groans.

He drags him into his bedroom, Tao falls unceremoniously on Joonmyun’s striped bed. Still fully-dressed, he splays himself obscenely, opens his mouth, lowers his eyelid, arches his spine, rests his palm over his erection, palming himself as Joonmyun hesitates at the foot of his bed.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Joonmyun praises, and Tao shudders shamefully, presses down harder. “Taozi,” Joonmyun croons, and Tao bites back a moan.

“Stop,” he whines, and Joonmyun’s smile only widens. “Come here.” Joonmyun does, falling on top of him. He presses a smirk, a dark chuckle against the column of Tao’s throat. Tao moans in retaliation, filthy, extra breathy. “Stop talking, start _touching_.”

And he can feel the hitch in Joonmyun’s breathing even as he drags the heel of his palm down clothed flesh, brushing at Tao’s pebbled nipples, his trembling navel, to skim the outline of his aching cock. He brushes Tao’s hand away.

And Tao is so turned on he follows the movement, whines low in his throat at the fleeting pressure.

“ _Really_ touching,” he coaches.

Joonmyun leans over to kiss him again, his lips are light, teasing, but his hands are bolder now. Move with more intent.

Head rolling back to deepen the angle, desperate as he is, Tao moans into Joonmyun’s open mouth, and Joonmyun’s other hand—the hand not skating over his clothed cock—skates up his shirt, forcing it completely off. His pants go in the next second, with an expert flick of Joonmyun’s wrist, a hasty tug of fabric. And Tao is completely hard, nearly naked, panting as Joonmyun grips his erection.

His fingers drag over the outline, circling the head, focusing on the damp fabric near the pearling tip. Joonmyun kisses him harder, tongue curling into Tao’s mouth as his fingers slide inside his boxers, curl around his cock. Tao falls back, and Joonmyun presses him down insistently, tightens his hold.

Joonmyun scatters kisses down his body. His bare collarbone, his ribs, the fine hair at his navel, the jut of his hipbones. And then Joonmyun is peeling off his boxers, breath ghosting over pulsing flesh.

Joonmyun’s got a small mouth, but his lips are puffed out from too many kisses. And they look pretty, sinful dancing over the head of Tao’s cock. Joonmyun smirks as he catches Tao’s eyes.

“I’ve been wanting to do this forever,” Joonmyun confides, coaxing one of Tao’s fists to his head. Tao complies easily, threads his fingers through Joonmyun’s hair, _cradling_ , as the elder takes him into his mouth.

Joonmyun hums as he takes him as far down as he can go, swallows around him, and Tao’s spine arches sharply. His fingers much less tender, much less careful, he tugs harshly on Joonmyun’s hair, whimpers in protest when the elder smirks, pulls back to murmur a firm, quiet “Stay still.”

Joonmyun laves some succulent kisses on the head, murmuring about how nice and hot and hard Tao is, just for him, as he drags his thumb lengthwise down Tao’s cock. He traces a vein as he sucks teasingly on the head, tongue swirling in the most hot, wet, maddening way. Joonmyun bobs once, twice.

“Hold up your legs,” he rasps, and Tao grips them in his clammy fingers, eyes heavy as he watches Joonmyun settle further, more comfortably between his quivering legs.

Joonmyun noses at the seam of Tao’s inner thigh, scatters a few more kisses. Informs him, voice hot and breathy, affected, that he’d gonna finger him now. Prep him for Joonmyun’s cock.

Joonmyun disengages briefly, rifles through his bedside drawer for lube, a condom.

But it’s too long. And Tao fists his own cock as he waits, tugs on it lazily, focusing on the crown, where Joonmyun had spent the most time, smearing his beautiful, beautiful lips.

And Joonmyun is disheveled, hair askew, white white teeth biting into his puffy pucker of a mouth as he regards Tao in blatant desire. It makes Tao feel overheated, exposed, _beautiful_ , too. He strokes himself even harder, knees spreading in blatant invitation.

“You’re so gorgeous,” Joonmyun notes, and Tao flushes, preens. “You have—have to have known how gorgeous I thought you were. How I always _looked_ at you. You’re so…”

“Gonna fuck me or what?” Tao offers in challenge. “ _Suho_? Hyung?”

“First things first.”

Joonmyun pins him down with a look, and Tao trembles in arousal.

He sucks on Tao’s inner thigh as he slicks his fingers, bites down as he fucks the first finger inside. He drags his teeth, uses his free hand to hold Tao’s hips down as he fucks a second inside, curls just _so_. “Hold your legs up,” he tells him, and Tao does, head lolling forward to watch. Joonmyun’s eyes are dark and hot, burning up at him from between Tao’s thighs.

Joonmyun spreads his fingers, scissors them open, mouthing still at Tao’s skin, and then his tongue is going lower lower lower. He fucks in a third finger, shifts them enough to press his tongue inside, too. And oh _fuck_.

“Yes,” he whimpers. “ _Yes_.” And Joonmyun hums in acknowledgement as he continues. Warm, wet muscle tracing in a perfect, perfect pattern, tiny circles then the barest penetration. It’s a brand new sensation, forbidden and filthy, and it has his limbs trembling, his mouth falling open on an obscenely loud moan. His knees lock together, his grip falters.

“Hold them up,” Joonmyun insists, coupling the command with a curl of his fingers, a glide of his tongue. And it really isn’t fair. “Hold them up, or I’ll have to stop, Tao.”

“No, hyung please—ah—please, please, please—with your tongue.”

And it’s so _hard_ when his entire body wants to fold in on itself from the sheer pleasure of it. But he tries. Manages. And Joonmyun’s touches become even more pointed, tongue fucking inside of him in the most delicious way, fingertips dragging insistently against that perfect perfect spot.

“I like it when you—ah— _yes_ ,” Tao hums, and Joonmyun moans into him, increases the pressure, the speed.

Tao is teetering on the edge, thrashing as it builds and builds and builds. “Hyung, please,” he whimpers. “Please I want— _fuck_ me.”

Joonmyun slurps obscenely, and his lips, his chin are so shiny, slick with saliva. It’s hot in the dirtiest way.

“After you’ve come nice and hard,” Joonmyun says, offhand, teasing, running his knuckles against Tao’s erection in something like appreciation. “Me,too. Maybe—maybe I’ll let you fuck me. You think you can manage that.”

Tao whimpers, nods.

Joonmyun falls forward then, smears excess lube on Tao’s waist as he snaps a condom into place, fucks forward with a stuttering thrust.

Arms straining above him, Joonmyun looms, small, slight, unassuming as he is.

Tao can feel the tension, Joonmyun’s body strung tight, looming heavy, as he pulses in Tao’s ready body. The length and girth of it has him gasping, hips bucking forward as he fights to keep his eyes open. He needs to fucking see this.

Joonmyun appears similarly affected, eyelashes fluttering as he moans heavily. He thrusts shallowly, swiveling his hips, and Tao moans, too. Louder, needier, hips tilting up, ass flush against Joonmyun’s hips, silently begging for more.

“Okay?” Joonmyun asks, anyway, and Tao nods shakily, undulates upwards with another smooth roll of his hips.

Joonmyun presses more heavily into him, elbows bracketing Tao’s head. He snaps forward sharply, and Tao’s head lolls back, neck too heavy and limp from the exquisite stretch.

Tao clenches deliberately, and Joonmyun’s lips are parting on a broken moan.“You feel...so, _so_ good,” he praises, nosing at Tao’s neck.

“Fuck me,” Tao urges.

And Joonmyun does.

Attentive, he intuits, delivers. And once he’s got the rhythm down, used Tao’s moans as a guiding principle, once he’s gotten a feel, he fucks just like Tao has dreamed. Thorough, hard, unforgiving, so slow that Tao can feel every drag of Joonmyun’s cock inside of him. Every pulsing thrust forward.

Tao’s legs, arms wrap around Joonmyun’s body, urging him closer as he pants into his ear. And he’s not gonna last. Can’t. Not with the way that Joonmyun is fucking into him. Not with the way he’s moaning Tao’s name. Urging him to touch himself. Come for Joonmyun. Clench for him. He’s already so, so tight. So, so perfect. So, so beautiful. But Joonmyun, Joonmyun really wants to see it.

Tao complies with a stuttery moan, rhythm faltering, spine bowing, teeth grazing Joonmyun’s pulse as the white hot pleasure pulsing through his veins reaches a fever pitch. Drowns everything out. In the throes of it, he registers the erratic thrusts, the deep broken moan that accompany Joonmyun’s own release.

There’s a lazy, hesitant sort of tenderness in his touch afterwards, clumsy, trembling, soft. Tao presses back into it, lips parting in a soft, sated moan. Joonmyun nuzzles lazily into his neck, and Tao clings, whimpers softly.

Joonmyun insists on cuddles. _Does_ thread his fingers through Tao’s, shifting to whisper kisses over Tao’s eyelids, his cheekbones, the corner of his mouth as he breathes his name. “Anybody ever tell you you’re beautiful?” he murmurs against the corner of his mouth. Then a lower, huskier, “Recover your strength. Don’t forget your promise about fucking me later.”

 

That next morning—next afternoon, really—Tao returns home in a daze. Smile wide, walking on air, he steps through his apartment just as Sehun is stepping out of his room.

Sehun is sleepy and disheveled, and his smile wrinkles his face, scrunches his eyes. The morning—afternoon, really—shadows are kind, caressing across the planes of his face. He shifts deliberately as he bows his head in greeting, and there’s a hickey blooming on his throat, dark against the pale, smooth jut of his adam’s apple. His eyes, Tao notes, are heavy-lidded and post-orgasmic.

“Good?” he manages.

Sehun grins lazily. Lolls his neck to the side.

“Hope we didn’t keep you up. Jongdae’s got quite a pair of lungs on him.”

And _oh_.

But Tao reaches for a throw pillow, aim off on purpose, and Sehun squawks in indignation. “That’s fucking gross. Did you _want_ to be heard, fucker?”

Sehun throws it back, makes it bounce off Tao’s chest, and Tao lunges at him. Tackles him into the ground. Sehun is tall, broad, too, but weaker. And Tao pins him easily, thighs bracketing Sehun’s waist. He pinches his sides, and Sehun screams at the top of his lungs.

Tao registers the sound of the door opening as he pinches even harder, the inside of his arm where he’s extra sensitive, twisting as he screams back about how _wrong_ that is, to desecrate their sacred space, and Sehun flails uselessly, screams increasing in volume.

“Don’t—get off of my him, Tao. I still have use for him.” Jongdae is dispassionate, but insistent, tugging Tao up, off.

Sehun flushes, bites his lower lip, buries his face into his hands when they are released.

Jongdae coos something to Sehun, coaxes him up, too and Sehun braves one well-placed kick to Tao’s shin as he rises. Brags about how _amazing_ last night was. How _amazing_ it is to not strike out.

But Tao’s phone buzzes before he has a chance to retort. From Joonmyun, a simple _baby_ , and Tao flushes hot, races into his own room without another word.


End file.
